


words that linger

by bluejayblueskies



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Hand Kisses, Happy Ending, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Morning Kisses, Sleepovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29846112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluejayblueskies/pseuds/bluejayblueskies
Summary: A collection of tumblr "things you said" ficlets! Specific summaries will be included at the beginning of each chapter.Chapter Seven Summary:Jon’s breaths, slow and peaceful with sleep, ghost across Martin’s skin, and Martin goes very still as he remembers, with sudden clarity, the events of the previous night.He’d kissed Jon. Jon had kissedhim.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 30
Kudos: 133





	1. table of contents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> table of contents! includes titles, brief summaries, ship, and general tags/tropes

1\. _table of contents_

2\. _with wine upon our lips_ – Martin drinks some wine and says some things to Jon [jonmartin, love confessions, fluff]

3\. _with bittersweet smiles_ – Martin and Jon talk before the Unknowing, and Jon says what he needs to say [jonmartin, love confessions, angst]

4\. _with peace and love and happiness_ – The apocalypse ends, and Jon asks Martin a question [jonmartin, marriage proposals, fluff]

5\. _with quiet apologies_ – Jon and Tim drive to Great Yarmouth, and Jon tries to make amends [jontim, prior relationship, angst]

6\. _with sleep weighing us down_ – Martin moves into the Archives, and Tim decides to keep him company [martim, pining, fluff and angst]

7\. _with sunlight warm upon us_ – Martin and Jon wake, and they talk about the events of the previous night [jonmartin, getting together, fluff]


	2. table of contents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin takes another sip of his wine, looks at Jon, and, before he can stop himself, says, “I’d kiss you if you asked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jonmartin + things you said when you were drunk

“I’d kiss you if you asked.”

The words are out of Martin’s mouth before he can stop himself. It takes him a moment too long to realize he’d said them aloud, and by that time Jon is staring at him, wide-eyed and flushed (though that might just be from the wine). “What?” Jon says, his voice breaking just a bit around the word, and Martin wants to melt into the couch and disappear.

“Nothing,” he says, too loud, and drains the rest of the white wine from his glass before his reckless mouth can say something else like _I love the way you smile when I bring you tea_ or _The way you say my name makes me indescribably happy_ or _I’m very much in love with you._ “It’s nothing,” he repeats, his voice slightly slurred. “I just think you’re very pretty.”

_Shit._

Martin should have known it would be a bad idea to accept Jon’s offer of wine. Movie nights were normal. They were _great._ He and Jon had gotten off to a rocky start, sure, but it’s better now. Jon smiles at him at work, the four of them go out for lunches together, and on most Saturdays, he’ll go to Jon’s and they’ll get takeaway and watch a documentary. Martin hadn’t been fond of documentaries before, but there’s something about the way that Jon’s eyes light up when he talks over parts of it, his hands gesturing with increasing vigor as he expands on the commentary. It makes a warmth spread through Martin’s chest and settle in his stomach, fluttering ever so slightly.

It hadn’t taken him very long after that to realize that he was falling a bit in love with Jon. And he found he didn’t really mind.

“ _What?_ ” Jon repeats, setting his glass of wine down on the table next to him and narrowly avoiding the edge. _He’s sitting very close to me,_ Martin’s mind supplies, which is _not_ helpful at the moment. Then, seeming to realize that the question is only serving to make Martin more flustered, Jon says quickly, “I, ah. I’m not upset.”

It’s not a rejection, not really. But it sure feels like one, from the way the word _upset_ rips through Martin’s heart like it’s made of paper. Martin looks down at his wine glass and, upon finding it empty, reaches for the bottle sat on the table next to him. Also empty.

His hand reaches to set the bottle back down, and as he does so, Jon’s hand catches his. Martin can’t help the little noise he makes at that, halfway between a giggle and a whimper. His head is fuzzy, and all he can focus on at that moment is Jon’s hand, his thin fingers warm against Martin’s as he grips Martin’s hand with a surprising intensity.

“I said I wasn’t upset,” Jon repeats, his forehead creasing in that way it does when he doesn’t quite understand something. “I… are _you_ upset?”

_No,_ sober Martin would say with a plastered-on smile. _Of course not. Could we just forget about this?_

Drunk Martin opens his mouth and says, “Yes.” Some part of his brain—a very, very small part—begs him to stop, but instead he continues, “I- I just, things are- are nice between us, _really_ nice, and I- I’ve just gone and ruined it, haven’t I, because you’re- you’re not _upset,_ but you’re not _not_ upset, and I should- I should _know_ that wine does this to me, stupid _stupid_ agreeing to drink, I’m so sorry Jon, I don’t—”

_I don’t want to lose you,_ is what he intends to say. But then Jon is raising Martin’s hand to his lips and tenderly pressing a kiss across Martin’s knuckles, and Martin’s mind goes blank.

“What?” Martin whispers, because it’s really all he can think to say at the moment.

Jon’s smile is a bit unsteady, almost hesitant. It’s the wine, Martin tells himself, even as his heart squeezes in his chest with an affection so thick he can hardly breathe around it. “You said you’d kiss me if I asked,” Jon says, and Martin would think that he’s teasing him if Jon’s eyes weren’t fixed on him with such a burning intensity. “Does, er. Does the offer still stand?”

Martin feels like he’s falling. Or maybe flying. Either way, he’s breathless when he says, quietly, “Yes.”

Jon nods once, like he’s decided something. He shifts just a bit closer, his knee brushing up against Martin’s, and says, “Martin, would you… would you kiss me?”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.


	3. with bittersweet smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They leave for Great Yarmouth soon, and Martin's staying behind, and Jon's struck with the reality of the situation--that this might be all the time they have, right now, in the hours before he departs.
> 
> So Jon pulls his hand away from the tape recorder, hugs his arms tightly to his chest, and says quietly, “I’m scared, Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jonmartin + things you said when you were scared

Jon’s hand is hovering over the tape recorder sitting on his desk, trying to decide whether or not to bring it with him to Great Yarmouth, when there’s a soft knock on the doorframe to his office.

It’s really not Martin’s fault that Jon startles so badly at the noise. He’s just… he’s been on edge lately. They all have, he supposes. The tension in the air has been palpable, growing stronger every day as the Unknowing grew nearer, and it’s reached a fever pitch by this point. His nerves feel stretched paper-thin, and he feels terrible at the way his flinch draws a guilty expression to Martin’s face.

“Sorry,” Martin says, his hand hovering in the air for a moment before dropping to his side. “I just, er. I saw the light on and I wanted to…”

The sentence hangs in the air, like Martin isn’t quite sure how he wants to finish it. After a moment, Martin clears his throat and says, “Got everything you need? I know it’s not exactly a vacation, but you _are_ staying overnight, so, er, maybe toothpaste? And- and it can get cold by the coast, so maybe a jacket—though it _is_ summer, so you might not need one. Maybe we should check the weather forecast—”

“ _Martin,_ ” Jon says, softly but firmly.

Martin’s mouth snaps shut, and one of his hands comes up to grip his upper arm in a protective gesture. “Sorry. Just- just nervous, I guess.”

“Yes,” Jon says, suddenly very, very tired. “Me… me too.”

They stand there in silence for a moment, Jon’s fingers still lingering on the tape recorder and Martin still shrinking into himself slightly. It’s been a while since he’s done that around Jon, and the thought makes something twist in Jon’s stomach.

Maybe that’s why Jon pulls his hand away from the tape recorder, hugs his arms tightly to his chest, and says quietly, “I’m scared, Martin.”

The vulnerability itches underneath his skin, but Jon doesn’t shy away from it, even as Martin’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. He continues, “I- I don’t know what’s going to happen. Elias played us that tape, and we have a- a plan, but there’s just so much that’s out of our control, and the chances that things are going to go wrong are… quite high. So much has happened, I- I haven’t had time to _process_ so much of it, and I—”

Jon breaks off with a small noise that sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a sob. “I don’t think we’re all coming back from this,” he says, so quietly he’s not sure Martin hears it. “I’m… I’m not sure that _I’ll_ come back from this.”

“Jon,” Martin says, his voice breaking around the word. “Please… please don’t say that.”

Jon hugs himself tighter and looks down at the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“You’re going to come back,” Martin says, with such conviction that Jon can almost believe it himself. “You and Tim and Basira and- and Daisy, I guess—you’re all going to be okay. The plan is going to work, and- and you’ll all be okay.”

The last bit comes out choked and wet, like Martin’s barely holding back tears. And god, Jon wants to believe him. He wants to believe that everything will be okay, that they’ll set up the explosives and get out in time and detonate them at just the right moment and stop the world from ending. But he just… he just can’t.

“Martin,” Jon says, haltingly. “If- if I don’t make it back—”

“Jon _,_ ” Martin says, but Jon keeps going.

“If I don’t make it back, I need to tell you- well, I need to tell you so, so many things, really, but you _need_ to know that I—”

“ _Jon._ ”

Jon draws in a shaky breath and looks up at Martin. Pain and sadness are etched into every line of Martin’s face, and beneath them lies a mute fear that Jon feels reflected within him. “You’re going to make it back,” Martin says firmly, leaving no room for discussion. “You’re going to make it back, and- and you can tell me then.”

Jon shakes his head and takes a step toward Martin, his arms unfolding from his chest and one hand reaching for Martin’s. “Please, just- just let me say this.”

Martin allows Jon to take his hand. It’s shaking ever so slightly, clammy with nerves. Jon squeezes it tightly, thinking about all the times Martin’s handed him tea or files or pastries and Jon’s been unable to look away from his hands. “I… I am not a brave man,” Jon says, studying Martin’s hand in his so he doesn’t have to look at Martin’s face, to see the incredible sadness in his eyes. “I’ve been scared for my life so many times over this past year, running from things that- that meant me harm. I’ve made… so many mistakes, with Tim and- and Sasha and… and _you,_ and I- I don’t want to make another. Whether or not I make it back, I… I want to tell you this now.”

Martin’s quiet for a long moment. Then, tentatively, his hand squeezes Jon’s in return. “Okay,” he says softly.

Now that he’s been given the chance, Jon finds that he doesn’t know how to put it into words. How can he describe the way that Martin makes him feel like he’s safe? How can he describe the way that tea feels like home now, or the way that his office feels cold and empty without a mug perched on the edge of his desk, steam curling in the air? How can he describe the way that his mind, throughout every horror and kidnapping and lonely moment, finds comfort in the shape of Martin’s smile and the way Jon’s name sounds on his lips?

_I love you_ feels too hollow. Not enough to capture the swirling mess of affection and longing and aching sadness clustered in Jon’s stomach. He says it anyway, finally looking up at Martin so he can capture every minuscule expression on Martin’s face and catalog them for later. The way Martin’s lips part slightly in surprise. The way his eyes grow wide and his cheeks flush ever so slightly, his freckles stark against the light pink beneath them. The way the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, a bittersweet thing that Jon feels echoed within him, because it’s a bit too late, isn’t it? Jon leaves in a few hours, and Martin’s staying behind, and this might be all they’ll get to have.

Still, Jon says it. And when he dares to rest his hand against Martin’s cheek, Martin leans into his touch with a small exhalation.

“Stay with me?” Jon says, a bit of raw desperation leaking into his voice. “Just- just for a bit longer. Please.”

Martin draws in a small, shaking breath that Jon can feel against the palm of his hand. “Yeah,” Martin says, barely more than a whisper. “Of course.”

And when Martin pulls Jon into his arms and whispers a quiet _I love you too_ , Jon can pretend, at least for a moment, that it’ll all be okay.


	4. with peace and love and happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you want to get married?”
> 
> Martin nearly chokes on his tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jonmartin + things you said after it was over

“Do you want to get married?”

Martin nearly chokes on his tea. He looks over to where Jon’s sitting on the couch, feet tucked up beneath him and knees covered by a pale-yellow jumper that’s ridiculously big on him. (Though not as big as it had been a year ago, now that Jon’s been eating three meals a day and sleeping more than four hours a night. It makes Martin so happy he can barely breathe when he realizes that for the first time in _years,_ he can’t see the faint outline of Jon’s ribs underneath his skin.) Jon’s looking at him with a casual expression, but Martin can see the small crease in his forehead that forms when he’s nervous or concerned or frightened. Though that last one has been happening less and less.

“Are- are you asking _generally,_ or is- is this a…?”

He trails off, but Jon seems to take his meaning. Jon’s eyes widen ever so slightly, and he quickly says, “Yes, generally, I- I’m not, er, I’m not _asking_ if you want to—”

“Yeah, yeah, no, I understand—”

“—just thought it was something we should talk about—”

“—completely normal thing to- to discuss at this point in a relationship—”

“—so, er. Do you?”

Martin’s mouth, already shaping the rest of his sentence, freezes, his lips still slightly parted. He can feel the heat in his cheeks—Jon is still able to make him blush, somehow, even after all this time—and as Jon’s words begin to fully register, he feels a light, dizzy feeling bubbling up within him. It brings a shy smile to his lips, the kind a child gets around their first crush. “Yeah,” Martin says. It’s the easiest decision he’s ever made. “I love you, Jon, so much. And I’m quite certain I’m never going to stop.”

“… oh,” Jon says softly. The smile that settles on his lips is so _peaceful,_ and, _god_ , Martin didn’t think they were going to get to have this. He’d been so scared for so long—scared that one or both of them wouldn’t make it out of the apocalypse unscathed, scared that the world would never go back to normal and they’d all be stuck forever—but now…

He’s still scared sometimes, when he wakes up from nightmares or on days when painful memories rest heavily on his mind. But with Jon’s hand in his, with Jon’s arms around him, and with Jon murmuring soft reassurances in his ear, it’s much easier to feel safe.

To feel _happy._

“For the record,” Jon says, his hand finding Martin’s on the couch and squeezing it gently, “I also want to get married. To marry _you_. I… when I picture the future, the- the rest of my life, I can’t imagine you not being in it. There are so many things I could do, so- so many paths to take, but I- I don’t want to do it if you’re not there alongside me.”

Martin lets out a small laugh that he hopes doesn’t betray the rapid-fire beating of his heart or the flush on the back of his neck. “You’re sure you’re not proposing to me?” he says lightly. (Or, at least, he aims for levity; he’s quite certain he misses the mark.) “Sounds like you’ve got half the vows written already.”

“Yes, well,” Jon says, voice filled with amusement and, beneath it, something more vulnerable, more fragile. “I haven’t got a ring, so…”

“Right,” Martin says, his voice pitched too high. He’s sure his palms are clammy against Jon’s hand, but if Jon notices, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Right. A- another day, I suppose.”

Jon hums. “Yes, of- of course. Another day.” He pauses. Then: “But, er. But not too far in the future?”

Martin’s already mapping out the shape of Jon’s fingers in his mind for a ring size and trying to decide if Jon would like silver or gold better. “That- yeah, that sounds good.”

And when Martin finally slips a thin silver band onto Jon’s left ring finger and lays a soft kiss across Jon’s knuckles just to hear the way that Jon’s breathing hitches when he does so, the happiness that fills him is warm and soothing, like a cup of tea on a cold day. He gathers Jon in his arms, holds him close, and marvels at the fact that he won’t have to let him go. That they can have this. That they can be _happy._

That they can finally be at peace.

It’s everything Martin ever wanted and so, so much more. He gets to spend the rest of his life with Jon, to get married and cook dinner together at night and curl up in bed with their feet sticking out from under the covers and grow old together until Jon’s hair has gone entirely grey and crow’s feet cluster at the corners of Martin’s eyes.

And he can’t wait.


	5. with quiet apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Maybe it’s silly, but I think that’s when I…”
> 
> Jon doesn’t say _when I started to fall in love with you._ But from the pinched look on Tim’s face, he knows he doesn’t have to.
> 
> .
> 
> Jon and Tim drive to Great Yarmouth, and Jon tries to make amends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jontim + things you said while we were driving

The tension in the car on the way to Great Yarmouth is so thick Jon could cut it with a knife. He’s not really sure how he ended up carpooling with Tim—something about old habits and the Archers and ‘time to think’ that has Basira and Daisy sharing a car—but they’re an hour in and Jon can count the number of words Tim’s said to him on one hand.

Jon wants to break the silence. He doesn’t know if they’ll get another chance to talk, if he’ll get another chance to say everything he wants to say. To apologize, to try to make amends, to tell Tim that he still—

Jon sucks in a breath and looks out the window, at the sprawling countryside as it whisks by. Once upon a time, his hand would be clasped with Tim’s on the center console and Tim would be telling him some elaborate story about his latest camping trip or the case he’d been working on that had taken a dramatic turn or the latest office gossip and his own rather strong opinions about it. That’s one of the things he’d liked about Tim—the fact that Tim could talk, and Jon could listen, and when Jon got excited about something and interrupted Tim’s story, Tim would take it in stride and listen with a smile.

God, it had been so _easy,_ and now it’s not, and that more than anything makes Jon ache like his heart has been torn free from his rib cage.

Jon doesn’t realize he’s been tapping his fingers in a nervous rhythm on the center console until Tim lets out a labored sigh and breaks the silence as gracelessly as a bullet through a glass house. “Just say it.”

It’s too loud after so long with only the noise of the road and the low murmur of the radio, and Jon startles, his hand retreating back to his lap reflexively. “What?”

Tim’s eyes remain on the road, but Jon can see the tension in him, in the way his hands grip the wheel firmly and his mouth flattens into a thin line. “Just say whatever it is you need to say. Might as well. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

Jon winces slightly at the flatness in Tim’s voice, at the way he sounds just- just _indifferent._ It cuts worse than any anger or frustration. At least those meant that Tim was still _feeling_ something toward him, no matter how negative. Now, Tim just sounds tired. Resigned.

“I was…” Jon swallows and looks down at his hands so he doesn’t have to see Tim’s face. “I was thinking about the time we went to the coast together, to follow up on that case about the mermaid.”

Tim makes a sound that might be a laugh if it weren’t so humorless. “Yeah, I remember,” he says, and maybe Jon’s imagining the hint of wistfulness in his voice, looking for something that isn’t there. “Turned out to be nonsense, but it…”

Tim’s hands tighten on the wheel for a moment before going slack, his face twisting into something pained. “It was nice,” he says, so quietly Jon almost doesn’t catch it. “You, er. You had a lot to say about harbor seals.”

Jon flushes and rubs one thumb over the other—a nervous tic of his, one that leads to dry and cracked skin if he isn’t careful. “Yes, well. Growing up by the sea tends to foster an interest in marine wildlife. And, er. Well. Nobody else ever seemed interested, in- in the topic.” A pause. Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth and says, “I miss our conversations.”

“Jon,” Tim says. It’s a warning and a plea and a refusal all wrapped into a single word. And Jon should just leave it at that—let them pass the rest of the time in silence, like they’ve been doing for months.

Instead, he says, “I’m sorry, Tim. For- for everything.”

“ _Please,_ just- not now,” Tim says, his voice growing sharp around the edges even as the core retains that same weariness Jon’s grown accustomed to.

He hates it. He hates that Tim doesn’t tell jokes anymore, that Tim doesn’t smile wide and easy and greet Jon with a ghosting hand across Jon’s upper back, that Tim’s shoulders sag ever so slightly as he walks like he’s bearing the weight of the world. He hates that it’s his _fault._

“Then when?” Jon says, that same sharpness bleeding into the words against his will. “After this is all over? We might not—”

_We might not make it out alive,_ his mind supplies. But the words stick in his throat. Instead, he says, “Just. You don’t have to say anything, just- just listen. I- I don’t expect forgiveness.” Jon pauses, then says, softer, “It’s not my right to ask for it.”

Tim’s quiet for a long moment. The radio is playing something upbeat, a pop song that Jon’s never heard but that sounds exactly like the rest of the music the station has been supplying. Jon wants to turn it off; it grates on his nerves, makes every second feel like an eternity.

He doesn’t. Somehow, he thinks silence—true silence—might be worse.

“Okay,” Tim says finally, his eyes still fixed on the road. “Just- just please don’t say you’re sorry. I don’t want to hear it anymore.”

“Right,” Jon says. His fingers go to the hem of his shirt, fiddling with the fabric. There’s a loose thread there, and without thinking, he pulls it. It spirals out, making a neat line in the fabric where the weave falls out of line that Jon won’t be able to smooth out again.

He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say? He can’t mend what’s broken, can’t unpull the thread that’s tugged them out of sync. In less than a day, they’ll be in the museum, and Jon’s skin will be crawling with the memory of ropes tight around his wrists and plastic fingers coated with lotion touching him over and over and over, and they’ll be executing a plan that Jon can’t shake the feeling will go horribly, terribly wrong. They have so little time. Never enough time.

So, Jon says instead, “I remember when we first met. I- I don’t know if you do, it- it was very brief, and you seemed quite occupied with whatever case you were researching, but I- I remember. You were, uh. You were wearing that olive green shirt you like, the- the one with the buttons that look like flowers. You were distraught when you ripped the sleeve on that barbed wire fence when we, uh, broke into the—”

Jon cuts off with a small laugh. “I suppose our research tactics were quite unorthodox. And more than a little illegal at times. But when I got excited about a case and decided to pursue it in a more, er, _thorough_ capacity, you were always there. I- I don’t think I ever told you, but that was the first time I realized how much I’d grown to like you. You, lamenting about how you’d had that shirt for years, so- so _dramatic_ about the whole situation. And I spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time finding another one just like it, an even more embarrassing amount of time figuring out how to give it to you without coming across as- as _weird_ or what have you. But you just smiled and took it, and- and maybe it’s silly, but I think that’s when I…”

Jon doesn’t say _when I started to fall in love with you._ But from the pinched look on Tim’s face, he knows he doesn’t have to.

It’s like Jon’s there again, the weight of Tim’s smile making his pulse flutter hummingbird-fast in his throat, his voice slipping into the stutter he tried so hard to hide at work so that he came across as _professional_. He practically thrust the shirt into Tim’s hands, his cheeks burning as he did so _._ And Tim’s _thank you,_ so genuine and surprised and _happy,_ had dragged a smile of Jon’s own to his face.

Tim had liked making Jon flustered—had made it a game, figuring out what he could say to make Jon smile or laugh or flush so deeply it was visible against his skin. Jon didn’t understand why some of the things he said made Tim smile in return or press a quick kiss to Jon’s lips or give Jon a soft _I love you_ that still made Jon’s pulse quicken no matter how many times Tim said it. But it didn’t matter, because _Tim_ understood him.

Jon misses Tim so much he can hardly breathe, even after everything. His words come out slightly choked when he says, “I remember when you would bring me lunches because you knew I would forget to eat sometimes if I got caught up in my work. And- and when you went to that shop that had a cat and you sent me- Christ, _so_ many pictures, it- it was really quite excessive.” Quieter, Jon says, “And when you brought me to that park with the lights, and- and you told me that you loved me.”

“ _Jon,_ ” Tim says. It comes out tense, like somebody who’s trying very hard to keep their emotions in check.

“I know,” Jon says, pulling and pulling at the thread on his shirt until the fabric is bunched up completely and utterly ruined. _I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry._ “I… I know.”

Tim’s quiet for another long moment. Then, he exhales heavily, like he’d been holding his breath, and moves one hand from the wheel to the center console, palm up.

Tim’s hand is warm in his. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes trained on the road, even as his fingers twine with Jon’s in a practiced motion that’s still as easy as breathing.

Jon spends the rest of the car ride memorizing the feel of Tim’s hand in his, the shape of his fingers and the soft skin of his palm, and tries very hard not to think about the way it feels like a goodbye.


	6. with sleep weighing us down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stay up late, into the very early morning even as exhaustion drags Tim’s eyelids down with every passing hour. The clock rolls over into single digits, and Martin says, quietly, “I lied on my CV.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martim + things you said at 1 am

Tim sets the box of Martin’s things at the foot of the cot in document storage and makes a show of shaking out his arms and hands, even though it really hadn’t been that heavy. Mostly clothes and toiletries and other necessary amenities—though Tim had snuck in a small faux-leather notebook and a picture frame depicting a family he assumed to be Martin’s standing in front of the sea. Martin couldn’t have been more than five in the picture, but Tim recognized his auburn curls and button nose.

If Martin’s going to be stuck in the Archives for the foreseeable future, he may as well have something personal to keep him company, Tim figures. So, he’d packed it away, gathered the rest of the items on the list Martin had provided him with, and brought it all back to the Archives. Sasha was already gone by the time he arrived, and Jon’s office door was shut, though a thin line of light escaped from below it.

He’s been working later and later, Tim’s noticed. And if the cot already tucked away in document storage is anything to go by, he’s also been spending less and less time at his flat.

“There we are,” Tim says, flashing Martin a warm smile. “You’re all set to live in the company of hundreds of years’ worth of dusty documents. Not exactly bedtime stories—unless you prefer the spooky sort—but, you know…”

Tim trails off with a small shrug. There’s an ache beneath it, one that grows stronger when Martin curls in on himself slightly and says, “Better than the worms.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, and some of it leaks out—a guilt so thick it hurts his teeth. _Two weeks, and he hadn’t even thought to check on Martin._

“We would have come,” Tim finds himself saying, quiet yet too-loud in the space between them. “If we’d have known, we would have come.”

“I know,” Martin says, his words ragged around the edges. “It- it’s okay.”

“No,” Tim says, surprised at the conviction in his voice. “It’s not. You were trapped for _two weeks_ by a worm-infested woman and- and we just _took her word_ that you were out sick.” Tim feels revulsion bubbling up within him, a sickening nausea. “I _texted_ her. I thought it was you, and I- I was sending her the things I would send you, little jokes and pictures I thought you’d like and offering to come over. But every time, you said no. Said you didn’t want me to get sick, and it was such a _you_ thing to say that I just _accepted_ it! After a week, I should have just come by, if only to see if you needed- Christ, _groceries_ or something.”

Martin hugs his arms tighter to himself. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I- I don’t know what would have happened if you did.”

Tim knows that Martin’s right. He’d probably be dead. Or worse. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that if he’d just cared enough to check in, Martin wouldn’t have that scared, haunted look on his face that he’s trying very hard to hide. “Yeah,” Tim says, that same guilt laced into his words. “You’re probably right. Doesn’t make it better, though.”

Martin just nods. For a moment, they stand there in silence. Tim doesn’t know what to _do,_ how to make it better. He hadn’t been there for Martin when he’d been trapped and alone and terrified, but he’s here now. He’s here, but he’s never been good at comforting people, at smoothing the pain from someone’s face or knowing the right words to chase away fear and sadness.

So, eventually, Tim shrugs off his jacket, folds it on top of the box, and says, “You know, I have some playing cards stashed away in my desk, as well as _quite_ an impressive selection of crisps and chocolates. I have to tell you, though—I’ve never lost a match of Go Fish.”

Martin’s eyes when they meet Tim’s are wide with surprise. “What?”

Tim shrugs and smiles, a practiced motion that keeps him grounded even when pain and sadness threaten to tear him apart. He hopes it does the same for Martin. “Thought we’d make a night of it. A good old-fashioned sleepover, if you will.”

“Why—?” Martin cuts off, shakes his head once. When he speaks again, his voice is cracked down the middle. “You- you don’t have to stay, Tim. I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Tim says, a bit of that guilt pushing into the edges of his words again despite his best efforts to keep it hidden. He lets it take over, for just a moment, and says, “I thought you might not want to be alone. And I’ve been told that I’m _excellent_ company.”

Martin lets out a small, shaky laugh. “Do they?” he says, humored, and something warm spreads through Tim’s chest, nestling next to his heart. “I- I suppose… I’d like that.” He nods hesitantly and repeats, “I’d like that.”

Tim flashes Martin another grin before heading off to retrieve the cards.

They stay up late, into the very early morning even as exhaustion drags Tim’s eyelids down with every passing hour. Tim’s always liked spending time with Martin—on Friday nights at the pub or on the occasional movie night or even just in passing, taking a moment to chat at Martin’s desk before moving on to his own work. He finds himself moving closer and closer to Martin as the night wears on until their thighs are pressed together as they lean against the wall, the cards laying forgotten on the floor in front of them as they just _talk._ About frivolous things, like the kinds of flowers Tim likes and Martin’s favorite pastries. About personal things, like Martin’s visits to his mother in the home and Tim’s brief affair with Sasha.

The clock rolls over into single digits, and Martin says, quietly, “I lied on my CV.”

Tim looks over at him. His hands are fidgeting in his lap, but his mouth is set into a thin, determined line, like he’d been working himself up to this for a very long time. Martin must sense Tim’s eyes on him because he continues unprompted, “I- I mentioned that my mother is in a home, and- and she’s been unwell for quite some time, so I had to drop out of school when I was 17 to support us. Didn’t have time or the qualifications for a degree, but I needed the money, and- and nowhere was hiring, so I- I faked my credentials. Said I had a master’s in business or English or history—anything that might get me a job that paid enough to support us. For some reason, my lie about parapsychology got me an interview with Elias, and then… he hired me.” Martin sucks in a small, shaky breath. “I- I’m only 29.”

Tim’s reeling a bit. He doesn’t really know what to say—what _can_ he say? Eventually, what comes out is, “You’ve been here since you were _22?_ Without a degree?” He turns so he can face Martin fully and says, completely serious, “Martin, that’s _amazing._ ”

Martin flushes a bright crimson. “I- I don’t really think it’s- I mean, it’s not _really_ something that I earned—”

Tim puts his hand on Martin’s knee, and Martin’s mouth snaps shut. “To jump straight into an academic job without any prior knowledge? Yeah, maybe it’s not _conventional_ , but it doesn’t negate the fact that you’re just as good a researcher as me and Sasha.”

Martin’s flush grows deeper, and he mumbles, “Yeah, I- I guess.”

Martin’s hands begin to twist around each other again, an uncomfortable gesture, and after a moment’s hesitation, Tim takes one of Martin’s hands in his, trying to offer support and reassurance in the brush of his fingers against Martin’s. He hears the way Martin’s breath hitches as he does so, and affection curls in his stomach. “I’m glad you told me,” Tim says sincerely. “And I hope you know that I’m not going to tell anybody, not unless you want me to.”

Martin shakes his head firmly. “No, I- I _really_ don’t want to be fired. I, er. I kind of need this job.” He lets out a small noise that could almost be a groan if it weren’t so laced with nerves. “Christ, if _Jon_ found out. After the dog incident, I- I think he’d just fire me on the spot.”

“Or maybe,” Tim says, “it might finally convince him to stop berating you for every little mistake.”

“ _Tim,_ ” Martin says, pleading.

“I’m not going to tell him,” Tim says softly, squeezing Martin’s hand once more to firmly convey his point. “I promise.”

The tension in Martin’s shoulders bleeds out, and he sighs heavily. “Thank you. For- for everything, I suppose.” He pauses a moment before saying, quieter, “For- for this. For staying with me.”

Tim knocks his shoulder against Martin’s and then makes the split-second decision to leave it there, pressed against Martin’s. “Yeah, of course,” he says lightly. “We’re friends.”

“Friends,” Martin echoes, like the word’s unfamiliar on his tongue. After a moment, he squeezes Tim’s hand in return and leans more firmly into Tim’s side. His curls brush against the shell of Tim’s ear, and Tim has the sudden desire to feel Martin’s lips against him, ghosting across his jawline and light against his temple. For a moment, he considers asking—taking Martin’s hand and raising it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to Martin’s knuckles and his palm and the inside of his wrist.

He doesn’t. Instead, he gives Martin a wide smile and says, “I _like_ you, Martin. Me and Sasha and- and even Jon, I bet, underneath all that prickliness.” He gives in to his desires, just a bit, and lets his free hand come up to the side of Martin’s face, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. “How could we not?”

Martin’s cheek is hot beneath Tim’s hand, and he can feel the motion of Martin’s jaw as he says, quietly, “I… I like you too.”

“Flatterer,” Tim says. He loves the way Martin’s smile at that feels against his palm.

They go to sleep soon after, Martin flat on his back on the cot and Tim sprawled on top of him despite Martin’s protests that _we’re not both going to fit, Tim, the cot’s not really built for two._ Tim can feel the motion of Martin’s chest as he breathes; he wants to curl up into Martin’s side and stay there forever.

“Goodnight,” Tim mumbles, sleep already overtaking him. Maybe that’s why he lets his lips brush against Martin’s cheek as he says it, a slight enough motion that he doesn’t know if Martin feels it.

He’s not awake for long enough to know for sure. But with the feeling of Martin beneath him, soft and warm and _safe,_ he doesn’t really mind either way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> upped the chapter count by one since i have one more of these waiting to be written!


	7. with sunlight warm upon us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon’s breaths, slow and peaceful with sleep, ghost across Martin’s skin, and Martin goes very still as he remembers, with sudden clarity, the events of the previous night.
> 
> He’d kissed Jon. Jon had kissed _him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jonmartin + things you said after you kissed me
> 
> a continuation of chapter 2!

Martin wakes up with a splitting headache, an arm tingling with pins and needles, and Jon’s head tucked into the space between his neck and shoulder. Jon’s breaths, slow and peaceful with sleep, ghost across Martin’s skin, and Martin goes very still as he remembers, with sudden clarity, the events of the previous night.

He’d kissed Jon. Jon had kissed _him._ They’d kissed, and Martin had been giddy with wine and affection as he’d peppered little kisses along Jon’s jawline and nose and neck until Jon was giggling and saying, _stop, stop, Martin, that tickles._

It gets a bit muddy after that. Somehow, they’ve ended up in Jon’s bed, sheets twisted up haphazardly on top of them and still wearing their clothes from the night before. Martin’s left arm is tucked underneath Jon, his hand still resting lightly on Jon’s back, and it’s gone almost completely numb. As much as Martin very much doesn’t want to move, he’s also acutely aware of the growing discomfort in his arm. So, carefully, he begins to extract his arm.

He doesn’t even make it halfway before Jon shifts, burrowing further into Martin’s side with a small sigh, and Martin freezes. Jon’s fingers curl in the fabric of Martin’s shirt, and he breathes another sigh against Martin’s neck that has him shivering. For a moment, Martin thinks that Jon might still be asleep. Then, Jon mutters against the crook of Martin’s neck, “It’s too early,” and Martin _melts_.

Jon’s voice is rough with sleep, his hair tangled and messy where it’s slipped free from his braids, and Martin finds it so endearing he thinks he might break apart from it. He finishes extracting his arm from underneath Jon, and Jon makes a noise of protest before pulling back slightly, enough so he can see Martin’s face. This close, illuminated by the faint sunlight filtering in through the window, Martin notices the way Jon’s eyes aren’t quite brown, instead threaded through with hazel that clusters around his pupils and radiates outward. Unthinkingly, Martin lifts his now-free hand to the side of Jon’s face, his thumb ghosting just underneath Jon’s eye and skirting the top of his cheekbone.

Jon freezes underneath his touch, a sharp gasp slipping free from his mouth, and for a terrible moment, Martin thinks that he’s somehow misread the moment, as absurd as that sounds. He pulls his hand back and says, “Sorry, I- I probably shouldn’t have done that without asking.”

Jon’s shaking his head before Martin’s even finished. He reaches up and grasps Martin’s hand in his, threading their fingers together despite the awkward angle. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Martin resists the urge to have another crisis over the way Jon’s words once again feel like a rejection and instead focuses on the feeling of Jon’s hand in his. “So, you- you remember, er… last night?”

Jon makes an amused noise, similar to a scoff. “Yes, Martin, I wasn’t _that_ inebriated. I remember kissing you.”

Martin feels like all the air has been punched out of him. His voice is barely louder than a whisper when he says, “Right.”

Jon’s face folds ever so slightly into an expression of uncertainty. “You… you don’t, er. You don’t regret it, do you?”

“What?” Martin says, a bit too loud for the stillness of the morning. Quieter, he says, “No, of- of course not.” He lets out a small laugh and says, “I _did_ say that I would kiss you if you asked.”

“Right,” Jon echoes. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before saying softly, “Could… could I do it again?”

Martin’s mind goes blank. When he comes back to himself, he’s lost the ability to form words, his heart having climbed quite rapidly into his throat, so he just nods.

Jon hesitates, only for a moment, before leaning forward and gently pressing his lips to Martin’s. It’s chaste, brief compared to the kisses they’d shared the night before, but it warms Martin from the inside out and leaves him feeling light and airy, like he’s hollow on the inside. After a moment, Jon pulls back, but before Martin can say anything Jon lifts their clasped hands to his lips and lays another soft kiss across Martin’s knuckles.

_I love you,_ Martin wants to say. But it feels too raw, too vulnerable, too much of himself laid bare before them. So instead, he lies there with Jon as the sun rises fully, talking about everything and nothing and feeling happiness curl within him, bright and glittering gold.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos make my day! if you liked what you read, let me know 💛
> 
> find me on tumblr [@bluejayblueskies](https://bluejayblueskies.tumblr.com/)


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